The Library
by MitziMartyn
Summary: Edgar is gone. Joanne Harcourt is lonelier than ever before and after an unpleasant encounter with Maurice he finds out that Weston has more secrets than he could imagine in his wildest dreams.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

Nothing disturbed the traditional silence of Scarlet Fox's traditional library stuffed with books that stopped being revolutionary ages ago. Hacourt couldn't say he _liked_ that place, but it was the only one that offered him the comfort he needed to think. The familiar scent of old paper made him feel at peace.

Other students asked him about the P4's expulsion and the poor boy didn't know what to tell them – the school desired to avoid a scandal so he couldn't tell them the truth and lying was never his forte. The other fags – now prefects – had enough to do in their respective dorms, so they could hardly spare a moment for someone as invisible and insignificant as him.

At least the bullies left him alone, which should count as an improvement weren't it for the fact he woke up almost every night screaming, hunted in his dreams by creatures far more terrifying. The dormitory warden moved him into a single room so he wouldn't disturb his roommates, but never thought to ask what happened – but the boy didn't expect anything else. That was just how the Weston leviathan worked.

He tiptoed around the old librarian dozing off in his armchair and headed straight into the maze of heavy oak bookcases. All dormitories were renovated in the late 18th century, but he always felt the time coursed differently through the library – as if the other buildings grew around it much, much later. Few people came there unless they absolutely had to and Joanne was grateful that he had it all for himself.

Alas, not that day. Someone's mumbled curses could be heard, even though it wasn't nowhere near the exam period. He followed the voice, but stopped himself just in time. Cole. Cole actually struggling with homework. Harcourt covered his mouth, feeling only a little guilty for that brief moment of glee.  
Since Phantomhive exposed Maurice's dirty tricks, he had to rely on his own skills rather than other people's favours. Nobody wanted him as a fag either, so perhaps there was still some justice in the world.

The older boy took no notice of being observed. He sat there, his beautiful head in his hands, pearly teeth gnawing on his lower lip and staring into the book as if to burn its words into his eyes forever. Joanne watched. That... that _person_ made him look like a liar in front of everyone. Cole looked troubled and Harcourt wished he could enjoy the sight more. The boy sighed in frustration. He didn't pity the glamorous fake – not as a friend. Just the obligatory sympathy for a fellow human being.

The younger's footsteps made no more noise than the tremulous whispers of pages being turned when he left the library.

He heard about Maurice's grades. Harcourt's schoolmates believed that he wasn't paying attention to their gossip, but they were wrong. Maybe he didn't know how to make friends, but he knew how to listen and remember.

Anyway, the dethroned fag wasn't the kind to do any decent, honest work, so Joanne assumed the library would be his own again. Soon.

* * *

The following day Harcourt saw Cole in the library again, bent over the same book and it wouldn't surprise him if it was the same page too. He thought about turning around and running away like a coward again, but something in him snapped. There was nothing Cole could do to him since everybody knew his filthy tricks and Joanne had the same right to be there.

His heart was pounding like mad against his ribcage and his palms were sweating even though he desperately wanted to be brave. The boy sat down, a few places away from the ex-fag, opened his book and started reading, but the words didn't reach his brain. He glanced up, only to catch his elder glaring at him with hatred it startled Harcourt.

"Cole?" he squeaked and loathed himself for it, because he didn't do anything wrong and so there was no reason for him to act like a skittish, timorous mouse about to be turned up in her nest with a plough.

"I need your help."

His eyes widened. Out of all things that could have happened, Maurice asking for help someone like Harcourt was the most bizarre by far. "I... I don't think that I am the right person. Or..." a deep breath, meant to calm his racing thoughts, "… or that this is the right way to ask for a favour."

Having said that, the boy stood up, prepared to disappear faster than the fucks he was willing to give about the other student.

"I thought you'd help anyone," groaned Cole, shutting his textbook. "That's what you bookworms do! At least you'd make yourself useful for once." He sounded desperate. And like an asshole. Maurice Cole sounded like a desperate asshole.

"Well, then I suppose it is a good thing that you are not _anyone_ ," mumbled Joanne, picking up his pens and books."

Maurice threw his hands in the air in a way that reminded Joanne of Edgar, almost painfully so. "You know what? Nevermind, I don't need you. Go get a personality or something!"

"And you... you...!" The younger student needed a moment to come up with a decent comeback. Or at least a comeback that would not be as embarrassing as his last cricket tournament. He wanted to hurt the other, he truly did, but petty insults weren't his area of expertise, so he stood no chance against a master.

"Let me know when you figure out how to finish that sentence."

"You... you are just mad, because Edgar liked me more!"

And the fight started.

Well, fight.

Maurice threw himself on Joanne, all nails and spite. Hissing like an angry cat, manicured fingers wrapped around the younger's throat, they both toppled over.  
Harcourt tried to soften the fall. He grabbed the other's hair and pulled at them. Hard. The grip on his neck loosened and he managed to push the attacker away. As he was trying to get back on his feet, he slipped and hit his head on the edge of the heavy oak table behind them.

Cole watched him, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, unsure how to react.  
Joanne reached back and touched the spot that hurt. Blood was staining his fingertips. He looked at it for a moment, unable to make the connection between the blood and dull pain pulsating at the back of his head.

"Harcourt? Are you all right?"

The boy nodded. He felt light, lighter than air, lighter than prayer.

The library ceased to exist.


	2. Chapter 2

**I thought this chapter would be shorter, so I had to divide it into two parts. The following two chapters are about to get weird, especially for Maurice.**

 **II.**

Joanne kept his eyes closed, for a few blissful minutes pretending he is back at home, with one of his sisters playing the piano in the parlour while the other one would be sleeping by the window with their old dog at her feet.

Then he opened his eyes – no, still Weston. There was the Scarlet Fox infirmary with large barred windows and an elderly nurse accustomed to treating the odd bruise or twisted wrist. Peculiar things happened to students who _tripped_.  
Harcourt sat up and touched the bandage wrapped around his forehead, trying to remember what brought him there. That attracted Mrs Lee's attention – she stopped fiddling with her tools and walked towards him.

"So you're finally awake," she started in her typical slow fashion. "How do you feel?"

The boy looked down. There was it. Faint, dull pain on the back of his head, where he hit the table. "My head hurts a little."

"I'd be surprised if it didn't, though it shouldn't be serious. The skin is torn a little, but that will heal before you know it. That's that damned library, some students swear it's haunted." She stopped herself and laughed. "Well, you know how they can be. It's true that even some teachers say they feel uneasy there, I wonder why?"

"I never noticed," he mumbled in response, feeling her shrill voice cut deeply into his head, making the pain much worse. "I am feeling fine, Mrs Lee. May I leave now?"

The woman shook her head, resembling a mildly concerned duck more than any human being should. "Better not yet, just for sure. You'll stay here overnight and if you feel fit enough in the morning, you can go."

"Thank you, Mrs Lee."

Joanne saw there was no use arguing, so he laid down like a good boy once again, closed his eyes and hoped to fall asleep soon. If other students knew he fainted at the sight of his own blood, they would never let him forget it, so he hoped Cole would be discreet, as unlikely as that was.

Alas, sleep avoided him. The nurse left, so now his only company was a sickly sweet smell of roses blooming beneath the window. The last autumn roses. Usually he wouldn't even notice, but he was bored out of his mind, at the edge of counting polka dots painted on the ceiling just to pass the time somehow.  
He reached for his pocket watch and realised, to his great displeasure, that he had lost it – in the library, no doubt. Mrs Lee wouldn't allow him to leave and look for it, but the boy decided she didn't need to find out.

Joanne peeped outside, relieved that the hallway was empty. Disobeying an adult wasn't really his style and he couldn't imagine what would happen if somebody found out. Nothing much, he assumed, but the mere idea of getting scolded made his stomach tighten.

So he tiptoed into the library, careful to remain unseen.

"Good afternoon. Coming back, I see."

Mr Crick, the librarian. Harcourt, in his excitement, completely forgot about him. Time to play it cool.

"Ah... yes... I left something here, sir."

"Yes, yes, of course..." The old man adjusted his glasses and smiled. "Your friend left after you hit yourself so badly."

"He is not a..."

It didn't matter.

Joanne bowed shortly and dove into the forest of mahogany bookcases. He kept looking around, then got down on his knees with a sigh – there was a coloured carpet under the table and it was hard to spot the tiny silver watch against its intricate pattern. The table itself was in such a stupid place too – in the corner, right by the wall. Around the exam period there was not enough space for all the desperate students, trying to cram months of information into their heads in the course of a single day.  
But that would be the Scarlet Fox dormitory – great leaders, poor planners.  
The boy remembered Rosseau wrote in his _Discours sur l'origine de l'inégalité des hommes_ about savages who failed to understand that their actions had consequences and he caught himself wondering whether the same couldn't be applied to his schoolmates.

Didn't Edgar realise that Arden's family would ask what happened when their son didn't come home?

He shook his head, trying not to think about the former prefect too much. Redmond himself surely didn't care to remember.  
Around the beginning of the school year he half-expected a letter, but in vain. Maybe the principal decided the expelled students were not allowed to contact anyone in Weston, so Edgar couldn't write to him. A more cheerful option than that he simply did not bother.

At last he spotted the matt gleam of his watch under one of the bookcases, a few steps away from the table. It was tight space, but he managed to get his arm there up to the elbow and pull the watch out by their chain.  
His fingertips brushed paper. A book? It seemed strange, but stranger things happened at school – it took some effort, but he managed to get it out, seeing it wasn't a book, but an elegant leather-bound diary.

 _October 18, 1852_

 _Dear Diary,_

 _grandmother says that if I write every day, I won't be so clumsy in conversations, but if my roommates found out I have a diary, they would read it and they would make fun of me again and I wouldn't like that very much. Dreyer says I am asking for it, but I don't understand what it means.  
I am not stupid. I understand History and Arithmetic. I like poetry too, but I don't understand it, so maybe if I understood it, I would understand why the others can't leave me be. _

_My name is Reed. No, my name is Stephen Anthony Reed. But in Weston I am just Reed, because it is not allowed to use first names. And sometimes Ratbag, because that is not my first name and so it is allowed. I wish they didn't call me that._

He closed the diary. More than thirty years ago, but it could have been written the day before – the school didn't change, nor did the people, though Reed seemed like someone Harcourt would want to meet, if they weren't ages and ages apart..  
He hid the slender volume under his jacket and almost ran into the infirmary, longing to read on. Perhaps Mrs Lee or Mr Crick would tell him what had happened to that clumsy poetry-lover, they were both old enough.

The nurse had yet to return, but somebody else was waiting there.

"The rumour has it I killed you," remarked Maurice, twirling a strand of his golden hair around his finger and observing it for any split ends. Not that there would be any, he took spectacular care of his locks.

"Ehm... better luck next time?"

"There were macarons for tea, so I brought you some, just in case you were alive."

"How... thoughtful of you." Joanne could hardly believe his ears. He sat on the bed next to Cole and hugged his knees to prevent the diary from slipping out. "Is it because of that thing you wanted to ask me earlier?"

The older boy stopped playing with his hair. _Touché_. "I wanted you to help me with Latin."

"But you're much older, I don't know if I could, even _if_ I decided to."

"The teacher told me you are way ahead and I am..." Cole paused and shifted in his seat. "I am a _little bit_ behind. Not only in Latin, but it's my worst subject by far. I need a miracle to avoid expulsion, the warden told me a week ago."

"I didn't even know people could be e-expelled for bad grades," stammered out Joanne, staring at the elder. "How bad is the situation?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Maurice looked genuinely embarrassed – truly, a pity-inspiring sight. But then the smaller student remembered last year, when he made everyone believe Joanne lied without a drop of respect for the prefects and used those who were supposed to be his friends to make himself shine. On top of that, he got away unharmed, unlike Redmond's first fag. What sort of justice was that?

"I will help you with Latin," started Harcourt slowly, only to be interrupted straight away.

"Really?!"

"Yes, but only if you publicly apologise to everyone you ever hurt here. And-"

"But-"

"And! And you will make a vow to never harm anyone at school ever again. Tomorrow morning, at breakfast time, so every student in our dormitory hears. If you don't, I won't raise a finger to help you."

"You know I cannot refuse! That's not fair!"

"I'm as fair as you've ever been to me," retorted Joanne and flinched, as if he expected a slap, but it didn't come. Instead, Cole stood up, marched outside and slammed the door behind himself.

* * *

The next day found Maurice standing on a chair, watching the many different reactions to his very short and _very_ awkward speech.  
He wished the floor would mercifully swallow him, but it was still slightly less humiliating than having to explain to his parents why he was kicked out from his ridiculously expensive boarding school.

"That's all," he sighed and got down again. Most people laughed at him just as expected. He felt heat rushing to his cheeks, colouring them red with shame.  
Harcourt didn't laugh, but his gaze was firmly set on him the whole time and Cole couldn't but wonder what he was thinking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Yep, there are ciphers. If you solve two out of three, you can ask for a Weston drabble, provided it isn't smut.**

 **III.**

To tell the truth, Joanne had problems to keep his eyes open, because he spent most of the night deciphering Reed's diary.

As he progressed, the entries grew shambolic and puzzling. There was a sentence that lasted for two pages and many new characters, some of them portrayed so clearly that the reader felt he knew them all.  
Dreyer, his fag-master, who would give him sweets or harsh insults, depending on his mood and Pensworth, a Violet Wolf alumnus who had always treated him kindly and who often sent Reed letters full of sketches from his travels around France with encouraging messages. And, of course, Mr Crick.

Stephen spent most of the time in the library too, reading or talking to Mr Crick, the librarian – back then, when he was still young and didn't pass his days dozing off with his nose stuck in a book. The young man and Joanne shared the habit of hiding there.

 _November 23, 1852_

 _Dear Diary,_

 _somebody pushed me down the stairs today. Everyone says I tripped over my foot, but I didn't.  
I told Dreyer, but he says I should not be a grass. That's like a snitch.  
He told me to get him books for his essay in the library and I was happy, because I could talk to Mr Crick. He is nice like Pensworth, but Pensworth is not at school anymore, so I can't talk to him. I think Pensworth is smarter. He told me about tiger, tiger burning bright, Marianne and how people say one thing and mean another thing.  
Marianne is a picture in the library. It's a girl with her arms reaching out, surrounded by poor people, and I suppose she's poor too, because she's not wearing much clothes. Pensworth says it's a personification of France and that the picture represents The Revolution. _

He had to smile at that description – the painting was still there, in the same place, but nobody paid attention to it.

 _I asked Mr Crick, and he said yes. One of the previous Principals put it there after the reconstruction, because he had a good friend in France who died in The Revolution. He died soon after the reconstruction too.  
I think it should be redone, because the library looks wrong. Things are where they are of no use, everything is either too big or too small or too narrow._

 _Today is Tuesday. It was raining. Found a feather in the chicken soup, but it didn't look like a chicken feather._

Joanne flipped the page. Numbers and symbols. There were many pages like that one and he tried to figure out what was their purpose, but the longer he looked at them, the more they looked like pure nonsense. He didn't have time for that anyway, because the classes were about to start.

Lessons of that day lasted approximately an eternity and thirty minutes, or so it seemed to Harcourt, impatient to immerse himself in Reed's world again.  
It was Friday, but there was homework and he agreed to start with Cole Saturday afternoon, so he had to make use of every free moment.

* * *

Maurice's day went only downhill from there. Ever since Phantomhive came to school and ruined everything, his position had been bad, but after Harcourt blackmailed him into making such a ridiculous vow, it was as if everybody lost even the last bit of respect for him.  
Not that he could hold it against them.

Alexander, one of his old comrades approached him during lunchtime, for the first time since the unfortunate revelation last year.

"That thing in the morning was some sort of a trick, or what?" he asked, standing too close for Cole's comfort, towering above him.

"No trick," he admitted and stepped back, until his back hit the wall. Alexander was one of the students who were supposed to help him _convince_ Phantomhive to get his bratty nose out of their business, but the former fag never realised he might become one of the weaklings that attracted Alexander's attention one day.

"That's so _sweet,_ " laughed the taller student, ruffled Maurice's hair and left. Those words made him shudder.

He spent the rest of the day on guard, expecting something terrible to happen – he would swear Alexander was planning to make his life uncomfortably interesting, and if not Alexander, then somebody else.  
Harcourt made him a target for every bully in Weston. And the worst part? He probably didn't even realise that, because he lived in his fairytale world with talking forest animals, and believed that people are basically honest and good if given the chance.

He finally relaxed when he got back into the room he shared with two other students, washed his face, combed his hair and brushed it. One hundred strokes every evening – after all, being the most beautiful boy at school required dedication.

He watched with quiet satisfaction as each curl stretched out and then returned back into its natural shape, feeling at peace.

That ritual signalised the end of the day for him.

* * *

Sleep didn't seem as appealing to Joanne – at least not as appealing as Reed's diary. He was determined to find him and give it back to him, if only for a chance to meet him.

 _December 17, 1852_

 _Rslkvblfdvivmgvckvxgrmthlnvgsrmtnvzmrmtuo. Friday. The weather is good. Had cake for dessert. Dreyer in bad mood. Letter from brother. Tea with Mr Crick._

 _I'm very close. The library isn't wrong like I thought. I was wrong. Everyone was wrong wrong wrong.  
But I'm not anymore.  
I forgot to polish Dreyer's shoes and he told me I was an Idiot, but he will regret it, because soon enough he will wish he had been as good to me as Pensworth. ._

 _Dyxsqrd._

That was the last entry. Harcourt would assume Reed just got bored of keeping a diary, but he seemed like a person who gets things done. That sort of person who always fills his notebooks until the last page and who keeps using a pencil until it's a mere stub.

He closed the diary and ran his fingers over the cover. Mr Crick or Mrs Lee would surely shed some light on the mystery of Stephen Reed.

Alas, that would have to wait. His watch told him that it was nearing midnight and his eyelids felt heavier than they should.

Joanne fell asleep, clutching the diary like a plushie.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting by a long table in a beautiful garden, a porcelain cup in his hands. Ah, it seemed sleep overtook him during the Midnight Tea Party – how embarrassing.  
But nobody noticed anything, or at least nobody laughed at him – being the youngest amongst prefects' fags got him a fair share of teasing anyway. He took a sip of the beverage.  
Repulsive taste.

"Shall I make a new pot of tea?" he offered quietly. No answer. Perhaps it was one part of the traditional party that nobody told him about, so he fell silent again and took another sip.  
The flavour wasn't _entirely_ unpleasant, save for the strong irony aftertaste. Almost like...

Blood.

"Redmond?" he whispered and stood up, overwhelmed by _déjà vu_. It had to be a dream, Harcourt had it before and he knew – _hoped_ – he would wake up before...

Too late.

The moon peeped out from the clouds and shone upon Edgar's pale face.

"The tea smells good," he said, his voice flat and mechanical. The prefects and other fags turned their faces to Joanne, repeating the words over and over again.

 _The tea smells good._

Voices of the dead.

 _The tea smells good._

Harcourt dropped the cup and warm blood splattered everywhere.

 _The tea smells good._

Clayton's icy hands grabbed his shoulders.

 _The tea smells good._

Redmond crawled over the table, knocking over pastries, cups and flowers.

 _The tea smells good._

He tried to run, but the grip tightened. Painfully.

 _The tea smells good._

Joanne screamed at the sensation of teeth tearing through skin and flesh.

* * *

His own cry for help woke him up.

Harcourt sat on the bed, his heart pounding as if he had just run a mile, sweat trickling down his forehead, getting mixed with helpless tears along the way.  
He scrambled out of the bed towards the window to get some fresh air, but his hands trembled too badly to open it, so he contented himself with resting his face against the cold glass.

He caught himself thinking that he had been wrong – Edgar liked Maurice more. If he cared at least a little about Joanne, he would never put him through that hell.

No sooner had he started to calm down than somebody banged at his door.

"Who's there?" he asked and checked the time. Four o'clock. Unusual time for visits.

"Open the fucking door!"

"Cole?"

Joanne threw a dressing gown around his shoulders and unlocked the door – most rooms in Weston had bolts outside, but his used to serve as an office before the reconstruction and since it was so seldom used, it could only be locked with a key.

The person outside had Maurice's voice, but that was where the similarity ended.

"What h-happened?" stammered out Harcourt, inviting the other student inside with a gesture.

"What happened?" repeated Cole-not-Cole, covering his face. A choking noise left his throat as he slammed the door shut and collapsed against the wall. "You should know what happened! It's your fault! Weren't it for you, they'd leave me alone."  
He threw a wisp of hair in Joanne's direction. It landed softly at his feet.  
The once so exquisite golden curls looked sad, lifeless. Just some mess on the floor. Whoever chopped off his locks didn't hold back and Maurice's head seemed odd with his hair cut short.

Bare.

"It's your fault," he sobbed. "Are you happy now? Are you finally satisfied?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Kinda sucks Joanne never learnt the truth about Ciel.**

 **IV.**

"It's not so bad." Harcourt put away the scissors, observing his work. At least Maurice's hair didn't look like chewed off by a vicious badger anymore and he nicked his ear only once or twice. "It looks... practical."

Maurice groaned, rubbing his eyes. "This is the worst night of my life."

"In that case, congratulations," remarked Joanne, without consulting those words with his brain. He turned red immediately. "Sorry."

"Alexander. I know it was Alexander, but my roommates swear they didn't see or hear anything. Not like he'll ever admit to it. He knows I know and he knows I know this is not the end."

"It must be terrible when people don't believe you." The younger felt like a jerk for showing so little sympathy – wasn't he supposed to be the _nice_ one? - but it was four in the morning and he just wanted someone to knock him out so he could sleep without dreaming.

Cole didn't care anyway, being too busy pitying himself. "Now I have to hide until it grows back again, I see no other way."

"If you skip classes, then you will fail for sure," pointed out Joanne. "Do you think you could return to your room? I would like to get some more sleep."

"May I stay here? Just for tonight?" pleaded the elder in return. "I can't go back just yet."

"Uh... that's not a good idea..."

But Maurice already plopped down on the bed, hiding his head under the pillow. "I heard you were screaming at night, but I'd risk rather this than another encounter with Alexander. Not yet. _Please_."

Strange that even the almighty-wannabe Cole could be afraid of another student – Harcourt didn't know that one well, he heard just enough to stay away and keep out of his way.  
The teachers should do something about the bullying growing through the entire institution, but perhaps it was too much _work_ for them, or they were tired of being stuck there with rich teenage boys, or they knew they would do more harm than good, but in the end, nothing would be done.

And you weren't a proper man, if you couldn't suck it up.

Then he heard the sobs. Not the dainty, refined tears for show, but honest ugly wailing interrupted by gasps for breath. Joanne knew it. He wanted Cole to leave. He couldn't bear his own misery, let alone anyone else's. He didn't want to sympathize. He didn't want second-hand feeling of salt dripping down his cheeks.

Despair held you tightly, tighter when you tried to escape and Joanne had had enough of it already.

What right did Cole have to march in, acting like a diva? Harcourt shook his head, watching the whining ball of self-pity and wished he had the heart to kick him out of his room.

Instead Joanne picked up Reed's diary, slipped it into his bedside table and curled up on the other side of the bed, as far from Cole as possible without falling off the bed.

The muffled whining ceased.

Silence again.

* * *

The crisp, yet sunny morning mocked the terrors of the night. Joanne rose early so he could finish some of his homework before breakfast. He let Cole sleep and headed to the library, hoping it would be open already.

Mr Crick was inside, awake for once. Joanne greeted him, heading to the table in front of _Marianne_ , when an idea occurred to him. He set the books down and returned to the old librarian.

"Uhm... sir?"

The man looked up from the second book of Aristotle's Poetics, blinking a few times before answering, like a person used to quiet in their job. "Yes? May I help you?"

"I wanted to ask about one student, but maybe you won't remember him..." A part of him believed the old man would, considering how prominent a character he was in Reed's diary. Mr Crick, Dreyer and Pensworth.

"I never forget a name," assured him Mr Crick, sitting down – his knees made a loud cracking sound.

"Reed? Stephen Reed?"

The librarian gave him a blank stare. "It seems I do forget names after all. Who is that?"

"I just..." Joanne shrugged, averting his gaze. Mr Crick obviously meant more to Reed who had no other true friend at school after Pensworth left than the other way round. The only student to ever treat him kindle was from a different dormitory.

There always had to be at least one Pensworth at school. Or Phantomhive. Honest, just and brave – but Pensworth left thirty years ago and Phantomhive disappeared like... well, like a phantom.

"And do you know where could I find Plato's _Timaeus_ , please?" he inquired hastily, hoping to divert Mr Crick's attention. Though being a lover of truth, Joanne didn't want to get into a situation when he'd have to confess to reading a stranger's diary.

"In the second bookcase from the left, opposite the wall, third shelf, fifth book from the right." The old man cracked a smile and tapped his forehead. "Still not quite empty."

"You must know every book in this library," commented Harcourt, not without admiration.

"Almost." The man smiled. His smile carried something kind that reminded the student of antique books and their warm, dry scent. "I shall miss this place dearly."

"I didn't know you were leaving." Joanne couldn't imagine that happening. Mr Crick _belonged_ to the library – of course, there had to be different librarians before, but who would claim the position after he left?

"Oh yes, I am going to retire. Travel for a year or so and then buy a house and settle down – Kent, Kent always appealed to me."

Working at Weston must've been better paid than Joanne originally assumed.

* * *

Even though he failed to learn more about Reed's fate, at least one thing was clear in the evening – on the list of awful ideas, tutoring Maurice turned out to be only slightly less frustrating than eating soup with a fork.

Cole wasn't stupid, but that only made the whole ordeal more vexing, since he lacked even the most rudimentary knowledge – how did he get so far at school was beyond Harcourt's comprehension. If Reed were there, he would surely agree, according to one of the earliest entries in his diary.

 _October 22, 1852_

 _Dear Diary,_

 _The weather was foggy and gloomy. Letter from Pensworth. The class was boring. We had to go through the same exercise three times, because some people don't understand it no matter how many times Mr Dobson explains._

Another familiar name, Harcourt realised, going over that part again. Initially he picked up the diary again to decipher some of the messages in it, but he couldn't help and read the rest as well. It felt like listening to an old friend.

Mr Dobson taught arithmetic. Joanne promised to himself he would ask Reed if the old teacher had always been so whimsical.

 _I could fall asleep there, but I mustn't. I would get an Y. I never got one, but Dreyer makes me write his, so I know I don't like getting those. Sometimes I wonder if Dreyer can write._

 _I'm sorry, Diary. That was Disrespectful. But how can it be Disrespectful when it's a serious question? He says I'm stupid and I think he is stupid, but that doesn't make much sense. Stupidity is relative and if Dreyer is relatively stupid compared to me, I can't be relatively stupid compared to him.  
Pensworth says I'm smart and I value his opinion more, because he is Nice. _

_E jkpeyaz okiapdejc opnwjca pkzwu. Pda hexnwnu eo odknpan pdwj ep odkqhz xa wjz pda dwhh qjzanjawpd eo pkk odknp wo sahh. Sdu oqyd w swopa kb olwya? Ep baaho saenz, xqp E ywjjkp oaa sdwp ep eo sdwp eo snkjc._

Joanne stared at the last three lines, curious if Reed felt as confused when talking to people who didn't care to understand him.

A few moments later he realised he _could_ understand.

The boy grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, writing down the alphabet so fast some of the letters were barely legible. He continued scribbling and matching in feverish effort, hoping he was right.  
In the end, letters are purely conventional symbols, he reasoned. Their appearance has no connection to the sound of human voice.

Harcourt brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, a smile spreading over his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Some reviewers mentioned they feel something terrible is about to happen and I'm low-key sorry for not being sorry at all.  
By the way, how many Weston students know the school rules? Three? Maybe? **

**V.**

Reed repeated in his diary that something was wrong with how the Scarlet Fox library was built, but Joanne didn't see the problem.

Not that he had the time to rack his brain over it. With the merry-go-round of classes, homework and tutoring Maurice it was surprising enough he squeezed into his schedule a few hours of uneasy sleep.

Be it the stress, the lack of rest, the extra work or all of that combined, Joanne watched the first winter snow from the infirmary window, while simultaneously trying not to cough his lungs out. Mrs Lee was keeping an eye on him and the other ill students, so he couldn't possibly start working on the rest of Reed's ciphers.  
But he solved one of them. That was a good beginning as well.

 _E jkpeyaz okiapdejc opnwjca pkzwu. Pda hexnwnu eo odknpan pdwj ep odkqhz xa wjz pda dwhh qjzanjawpd eo pkk odknp wo sahh. Sdu oqyd w swopa kb olwya? Ep baaho saenz, xqp E ywjjkp oaa sdwp ep eo sdwp eo snkjc._

That one was easy once he figured out _E_ stood for _I_. The thrill of solving the rest of the cipher still shone brightly in his memory – he wrote down two sets of the alphabet in neat rows, but the second set was shifted so the letter I was next to the letter E in the first set.  
He kept matching the letters together – J with N, K with O and so on, until he got the following:

 _I noticed something strange today. The library is shorter than it should be and the hall underneath is too short as well. Why such a waste of space? It feels weird, but I cannot see what it is what is wrong._

Deciphering the journal entry didn't help as much as Joanne hoped, considering the way Stephen treated words, but he was fairly sure that his apparent obsession with that particular room was important – still, why did he feel the need to hide it?

 _The library looks wrong. Things are where they are of no use, everything is either too big or too small or too narrow._

What did that mean?

 _The library isn't wrong like I thought. I was wrong. Everyone was wrong wrong wrong. But I'm not anymore._

Joanne could almost see the words floating in front of him, laughing at his ignorance. Thinking about it made his head hurt. If only Mr Crick remembered Reed – perhaps then he could find him and ask him.

Mrs Lee brought him some syrup to soothe his sore throat. After all that coughing it felt as if it was coated in sandpaper.

"Now, this should help, but you won't get better anytime soon, unless you sleep," stated the nurse, pouring the amber-coloured syrup on a spoon in a generous dose. She glanced out of the window, forgetting for the moment about her task. The liquid spilt all around – on the floor, on her sleeve and even on the blanket.

"I... I apologise," she mumbled and stuck the spoon into Joanne's mouth with such vehemence that he nearly choked. "This weather really brings back memories, I always get so distracted."

The boy swallowed with some difficulty. "Mhm?"

She ducked and started wiping the floor with her handkerchief. "The year I started working here, there was one student. A nice young man, just a little..."

The nurse trailed off, rubbing the already clean floor. "To cut a short story shorter, he went home for the Christmas holidays and never came back. We assumed he quit school, but then his parents showed up, saying he didn't arrive. We scoured the grounds, but didn't find a trace. In the end, everybody agreed he ran away. He didn't say anything, naturally, but I believe the other children weren't always nice towards him and he had that friend abroad. I haven't heard of him since, it was all between the family and the principal."  
She shook her head, straightened up and sighed. "I remember the last time I saw him. It was snowing and he came with an injured hand. He said he caught it in the door, but didn't even seem to mind. He was very excited about something – perhaps he really ran away and joined his friend abroad."

"Stephen Reed?" asked Joanne softly, his heart beating faster. He desperately wished it was Stephen and that he ran away from all that nonsense... all that _bullshit_ to travel with his best friend.

"Yes, you've heard of him before?"

"I guess..." muttered Joanne, drowsy after the medicine. He felt warm and safe even in the impersonal white bed, one of many lined against the walls.  
At the edge of consciousness the painting of Marianne came to him, her outstretched arms soft and inviting, as if to embrace the viewer.

It had to be significant somehow.

Why?

Sleep came sooner than the answer.

* * *

Maurice started his day struggling to get shit out of his slippers and it didn't get better since. These things – normal schoolboy pranks, a teacher would say – kept happening and he had no idea how to stop them.  
As Redmond's fag, he had power over people, for the first and probably also the last time in his life, so learning to do without proved to be surprisingly difficult.

Once Alexander started, everyone else joined – except Harcourt. There were days when Cole almost wished that the younger joined the "fun" instead of acting like St. Joanne Moral-and-Rightful.  
Was he so humble? Was he a coward?  
Maurice didn't know and it was chipping away his sanity. The system at school should be simple enough – there was always some degree of superiority and inferiority, the rule number 15 be damned.

 _"At all times, you should share your hearts with your friends, and help them out with love. Every student has to be equal under the headmaster."_

Nobody followed that rule – at least, never for a very long time. Cole would swear that Phantomhive would agree, if that good boy act didn't serve him so bloody well. Strange things happened when he came to Weston and Maurice didn't believe in coincidences.

* * *

"Here is something to do and here is something to read," announced Maurice flatly, as a pile of papers and books landed on Joanne's bedside table. "Dobson gave me your homework, because we're apparently best friends now, and so I took the rest as well."

"How did you get into my room?"

"Good question."

"Thank you... I guess?" Maurice apparently brought him every book Harcourt had in his room, including Reed's diary. The boy reached for it and wanted to hide it, but he couldn't be more obvious if he shouted 'I'm trying not to draw any attention right now' at the top of his lungs.

"What's that?" asked Cole, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"It's... uhm... I found it in the library... just some puzzles," lied Harcourt. He was a bad liar – his ears turned pink just as he finished that sentence – but, fortunately for him, his companion didn't care to press the matter any further.

"What about the Latin class? Do you think you can pass?" he inquired to change the topic.

"There is something like a chance now," admitted Cole, avoiding the other's searching gaze. Another thing that pissed him off – Harcourt always made him feel stupid, without even trying. "I owe you one."

The words passed through his lips somewhat reluctantly. The dethroned fag obviously wasn't used to feeling indebted to another person. He shuffled his feet and ran a hand through his hair, gnawing on his lower lip. "And I won't tell anyone, promise."

"Er... what could it be you're referring to?"

"Well, you know, that you're a girl."

Joanne took in a sharp breath, staring at the elder in mute shock. "That I am a _what_?"

"You can trust me this time, I don't want to get you into hot water with the principal."

"I most certainly am not a girl."

"Are you sure? I mean, your first name and all..."

He couldn't answer, having another fit of coughing. Cole handed him a glass of water, but he didn't manage to drink more than a few drops of it.

"Fine, fine, I believe you."

He rested his head on the pillow, for a moment only looking at the ceiling and waiting for his breathing to get back into normal. "Look, Mrs Lee told me I could leave in three days. We can meet in the library then and go on with Latin."

"Do you want me to go away?"

"You may."

Maurice stood up and headed outside, shoulders slumped so slightly a casual observer wouldn't notice. He stopped in the door and shortly glanced at the resting student. "Get well soon."

* * *

Reed struck Harcourt as a systematic young man and so he reasoned that the only way to solve the mystery of Scarlet Fox library was to be systematic as well. What did he know from the diary?

 _The library was reconstructed between the late 18_ _th_ _century and before the year 1852._

 _The proportions in the library seemed off, but only Reed noticed._

 _There was a painting celebrating the French Revolution._

 _The principal who put it into the library had a friend who died during in the revolution._

Joanne read his notes over and over again, until the words stopped making sense. Defeated, he reached for the Maths textbook, working on the problems Mr Dobson sent him instead. At least Maths made more sense than honouring an event that cost your friend his life.

 _Maybe_ _,_ thought the boy to himself suddenly _,_ _maybe I was looking from the wrong side. Maybe it's not supposed to make sense._

* * *

The evening had advanced well into the night already and the other patients were peacefully sleeping in their beds when Joanne crept into the library with a small lantern in his hand, a box of matches and a few extra candles stuck in the pockets of his dressing gown.  
Mr Crick forgot to lock it – after all, why would anybody sneak there after lights out? To get ahead with his studies? To listen to the gramophone?

He set the lantern on the floor and took a moment to appreciate the painting. The long gone principal had a very specific purpose in mind when he chose it – at least, if Joanne's vague theory had a few drops of truth in it.

The tiny student pushed the heavy oak table away from the wall and off the gaudy rug, huffing and coughing all the time – the racket would wake even the dead, but Harcourt decided to rely on his luck for once.

He took a deep breath and removed the heavy painting from the wall, almost dropping it in the process and then he looked up and saw a...

… a plain wall.

A plain wall where he expected a hideaway or a secret passage to adventure. It was so anticlimactic that he could cry of frustration and the painting propped against a bookcase merely mocked him with her arms positioned as if for a comforting hug.

Joanne observed the painting, nervously tugging at a strand of his hair. Maybe she was pointing to something else in the room? He looked down at the hideous rug beneath his feet, gathering courage to try again.  
At last he got down on his knees, rolling the rug up.  
Once that was done he went for the lantern and examined the wooden floor underneath – it looked normal enough , save for a long crack two feet away from the wall.  
The boy ran his fingers across the surface, feeling hair-thin cracks, perpendicular to the visible scar in the wood.

A trapdoor.

Two minutes and a broken nail later he managed to lift it – there was a narrow black hole in the floor and a wooden ladder leading into pitch-black darkness. The lantern didn't give sufficient light, but as far as Joanne could judge, it led somewhere outside the library.

The excitement was so great that he could barely contain himself and only the thrills made him step onto the ladder and then down, down into the unknown.

Alas, he didn't consider the age of the wood and one of its rungs snapped under his weight and he landed on the cold floor at the bottom.

Harcourt wanted to get up, but his right leg shot an explosion of pain through his body and he collapsed again. He lit a candle to have a look around and his jaw dropped in surprise.  
Paintings, delicate sculptures and heavy-looking boxes occupied most of the space – one of them was open and the light of Joanne's candle returned hundredfold in the lustre of gold jewels.

Then the light fell on something that wasn't canvas, or precious metal, not even marble.

A human skeleton hunched up beneath the broken ladder.

Joanne _knew_ he should wake up any second now, however the pain in his leg insisted that all of that was really happening.

"Help!" he shouted, in vain hopes that somebody might come soon to inspect the noise he made before – and indeed, light appeared in the hole a few minutes later.

Joanne shaded his eyes, face turned up to see Mr Crick, gazing down, his warm eyes full of kind concern. "Please, help! I cannot get out!"

"Courage, young man. It won't take long," assured him the old librarian and closed the trap door.

The candle went out.

The candle went out and in the perfect darkness, all Joanne could hear was the creaking of a heavy oak table being returned to its former place.

"Please!" cried out Joanne. "I am here! Please, help!"

And only silence answered.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

Joanne knew the silence would haunt him for the rest of his life – so, approximately for three days. There are many kinds of silence. Gentle, comfortable silence between friends, the silence of empty houses, the awkward silence that follows when a teacher asks a question no student in the classroom can answer, even though they should be able to, because they were supposed to read the chapter, weren't they?

He lit the candle again and crawled towards the skeleton dressed in remains of a school uniform, discoloured by the process of decay. The small flame illuminated an embroidered symbol of the Scarlet Fox dormitory.

Reed didn't run away – he never left.

The skull was laughing into Joanne's face, for such is the price of knowing.

His eyes welled up with tears. Fear. Anger. Confusion. And the silence. The oppressive silence that happens when you want to scream, but cannot. The silence of helplessly opened mouth and resignation. The silence that chokes words in your throat.

He knew he shouldn't cry. He didn't have any water there and so he couldn't afford to lose it like that.  
And then there would be another skeleton, holding a skull as if immersed in a ball game.

"Help!" screeched Joanne into the silence.

* * *

Maurice felt sick only thinking about his last assignment for Latin. He studied. He studied harder than in his entire academic career and wanted to quit every single day. A simple translation took him hours of work and he rewrote it so many times that he could easily quote lengthy passages from the original text.

Redmond wouldn't hesitate to help him. No, he would. After Phantomhive started sticking his bloody snout into Cole's business and ruined his reputation, Redmond didn't look at him again.

No chance to explain, no chance to apologise.

Perhaps he was fortunate. Perhaps they moved Arden because he started boring the Scarlet Fox prefect. Maurice always felt like a replacement. A replacement not worthy knowing what was the reason for Redmond's expulsion.

"Cole."

Only then did the student realise he completely spaced out in class. "Yes, sir?"

The teacher handed him corrected homework. "This was acceptable. Keep it up."

Acceptable? _Acceptable?!_ Maurice would have never guessed that a word of restrained praise might ring the bells of victory in his ears once, but when the teacher said it, he could not be happier.  
There _was_ a chance he would manage to graduate.

He couldn't wait to share the news with Harcourt. Firstly, because nobody else would give a damn – secondly, because as much as Cole hated to admit it, it was also thanks to the younger student that his work could be deemed _acceptable_.  
The only problem was that the last time he saw saint Jo, they didn't part as friends. No argument, no resentment, no reason at all – at least Maurice didn't know what made the younger act so aloof out of sudden. Of course, he suggested that Harcourt was a girl, but that was an honest mistake and for once he didn't mean any harm with his words.

Maurice shook his head, as if to chase away the growing unease. In two days they would meet in the library and until then Joanne's irritation about who-knows-what would surely fade away.  
If Cole had any special talent, it was reading people, and he knew that the younger didn't have it in himself to bear grudge for too long.

* * *

Joanne would swear he was in Hell. He couldn't scream for help or cry for relief.  
His mouth was dry, his skin burning hot against the cold walls of his prison, his head had exploded in pulsating ache and the pain devouring his leg was the only thing distracting him from the terrible thirst.

How fortunate he was – _few people got enough time to familiarise themselves with their grave before they actually died_. That thought came to him suddenly and he burst out laughing, howling with laughter until his voice betrayed him and he could only cough.

Hundreds of years passed. Perhaps hours. Joanne didn't dare to guess. The pain in his leg eased off, or perhaps he was too thirsty to mind it. He should've told somebody. Anybody. They would notice he went missing, right? They would find him.

His head fell to the side and the gentle eyes fell on the remains of Stephen Reed. He figured it out. Of course, he had. He was brilliant and lonely, just like Harcourt.  
The former principal had a friend who died during the French Revolution before he could escape the country – many people had done the same. The friend sent to the principal some of his belongings for safekeeping, prepared to flee the country at the first opportunity and the principal hid them in the one place where they would be safe.

Alas, they both died before the wealth could be of any use to anyone.

Then Stephen appeared – Joanne didn't want to call him Reed anymore. He couldn't refer to the closest friend he never had by his surname. Stephen discovered the forgotten treasure and told Mr Crick, trusting him with his bizarre discovery.

So simple, so cruel and so human.

* * *

Joanne was right, his absence was noticed in the morning by Mrs Lee who alarmed the staff and in the afternoon the information trickled down to the countless students who volunteered to help searching for him. Most of them probably wouldn't recognise Harcourt if they found him, but it meant that they wouldn't have to attend their classes that day.  
The teachers scoured the classes and bedrooms, the staff went from the basement through the kitchen to the storehouses and stables, Mr Crick was in charge of the library since he knew it the best and the students were supposed to look through the vast grounds and even the frozen waters surrounding the Swan Gazebo.

Maurice joined the search, but he doubted they would find Joanne outside, considering his illness. He had no reason to be roaming outside – under normal circumstances he'd bet that the younger was hiding in the library with a thick book, reading his life away.

But Mr Crick reported that Harcourt wasn't hiding there. Nobody could find him, as if the boy just disappeared.  
People disappeared an awful lot in Weston since the previous year and although nobody talked about it, Maurice felt such things shouldn't be happening, considering how expensive that school was.

In the evening he returned to the infirmary, in a desperate attempt to get a hint at where Harcourt could be.  
Nothing. Textbooks, some pens, a pocket watch and a stupid notebook he was dragging with himself everywhere, probably congratulating himself on how inconspicuous he was.  
Cole opened it, expecting to find something that wouldn't be a mess of symbols, exclamation marks and arrows pointing at seemingly random parts of the text. He knew the younger's handwriting was neat, almost inhuman in its precision, but perhaps the notebook held more importance than he had assumed and so it disappeared under the lapel of his jacket.

* * *

"Help! I'm here! Somebody..."

He didn't want to think about the thirst. He didn't want to feel the thirst. It was the only thing he felt in the brief periods of consciousness between fits of uneasy, feverish sleep.  
In his tired eyes, Stephen's bones shone with light so bright, so impossibly bright, so bright it burnt. The skeleton raised a hand and placed it over Joanne's in a clumsy attempt to comfort him.

"It won't take long." The voice didn't sound human. If anything, it sounded dry. Dry, dry, dry, terribly dry, dry like Harcourt's mind. "You are too weak already. I lasted five days." What was it behind his words? Pride he endured the torment for so long, or regret that the suffering was dragging on for five endless, thirsty days?

"Were you scared?" he whispered and licked his lips, eyes fixed on the skull.

"Yes, I think I was scared. Then thirsty. Then tired. And then I wasn't."

"Then you weren't what?"

"I wasn't anything."

"It's hopeless."

"Yes."

* * *

Maurice finished his dinner, but hardly noticed it, because he was too busy reading that notebook Harcourt cared for so much.

"What are you doing, cutie?" Alexander appeared behind him like a phantom and snatched the diary from his hands.

Cole stood up, trying to get the diary. "Hey, give it back!"

"I would prefer not to," retorted the taller student, laughing with child-like delight as he watched Maurice struggling to reach for it.  
He picked a random page and holding the journal up, he started to read aloud in a mocking tone: " _Dear diary, the weather is fine. Earlier today I wondered what it would be like not to be a person. I wish I could be a bird instead and soar the morning sky forever. That would be possible, because the sun is always rising somewhere, but I'd have to fly very fast, I suppose._ Cole, I didn't know you were a poet!" Alexander laughed again and everybody else joined.

Maurice pushed him and used the second of confusion to snatch the journal. "Really funny, Alexander, so funny it almost makes up for your face."

Time stopped. All eyes were fixed on them, awaiting Alexander's reaction – horrified, yet fascinated.

He only needed a second to grab Maurice's wrist, twist his arm behind his back and push his face against the table. Maurice's head hit the polished surface and his forehead turned over a bowl with half-eaten mashed potatoes.

Since all the adults were on an emergency meeting, because _they lost a bloody student_ , nobody interfered. Some found the on-going show entertaining, most students just didn't want to get on Alexander's bad side by questioning his actions, let alone trying to stop him.

"Take it back," he hissed, his hot breath brushing Cole's ear like something that crawled from under the stone to be a nuisance. "Take it back, you piece of shit."

"I'm sorry," whined the ex-fag. "I didn't mean it."

"Now say you're a piece of shit."

He bit his tongue, feeling some of the lukewarm potatoes getting squashed against his cheek.

"Say it!" Alexander twisted the arm harder, sure to leave a mark. Maurice cried out, his eyes burning with tears. Something in him cracked.

"I'm a piece of shit."

The other student released him from his grip, a smile plastered all over his stupid face. "Well, was it that hard?"

* * *

There were two options – he could be thirsty in the dark, or he could be thirsty while watching a flickering flame of his candle.

He had never been lonelier, unless you counted Stephen as company.

"No, Reed doesn't count," said somebody in the corner. "He is dead and he is not going to get any deader. I should know."

Joanne groaned and turned his eyes in the direction of the oh so familiar voice. "Redmond? What are _you_ doing here?"

The elder stepped out from the shadows, only half-real with his gleaming hair. "I am not here. You are hallucinating from dehydration." He smiled, or at least Harcourt thought so – the ex-prefect's face somehow lacked details, his features as solid as sunshine on water.

 _Water_... Joanne tried to swallow, but couldn't. A violent cough ripped through his chest and then another and another and another and another, until he was completely out of breath, curled up on the floor next to Stephen.

"Someone who cares for you would be quite disturbed by seeing you like this, if such a person exists."

"What?" The boy lifted his head, unable to concentrate on Edgar's words. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what did you think? You were a substitute for Cole, just like Cole was a substitute for Arden. You're really naive for a swot and this is the reason you're stuck here." Edgar ran his hand through his hair, hardly resembling a human being in that moment.

A ghost, a vision, a phantom, dazzling and deleterious.

Harcourt closed his eyes, his breathing uneven. He could still see burning hot stains in the darkness behind his eyelids as if looking directly at the sun for too long. His head hurt and Redmond's voice cut through his exhausted mind like a nail with every word spoken.

"Keep your eyes closed. Rest. It's over."

And who was Joanne to disobey his prefect?


	7. Chapter 7

**As this is the last chapter, I deem it appropriate to thank everybody for the kudos and kind reviews. The Library is the fourth story I wrote about the Weston students and probably the last one, at least for some time. Thousand thanks to everyone who made writing about Joanne's little adventure so much fun for me.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **VII.**

 _This is the way it happens,_ realised Cole as he stood there, mashed potatoes covering half of his face. Everybody laughed, except for himself and that was always awkward.

A victim was chosen. Then they pushed and he would yield, because they made him believe he deserved it, that he had provoked them. And they would keep pushing and pushing, until their prey did something stupid or until they found a new, more entertaining target.

Yes, Maurice assumed another guy in his position would content himself with being the morally superior one there, but he didn't care for a consolation prize.

"I'll make you regret this," he hissed.

"That's pretty rich coming from someone with a piece of potato in his ear," Alexander grinned.

Someone else might react differently. Cheslock would punch him there and then. Midford would stand up to Alexander before he even started bothering him. Clayton would say something cutting and kind of embarrassing. Harcourt would turn invisible, have a good cry about it in private and then forgive. Maurice wasn't any of them, so he didn't do any of these things. He was Maurice Cole and he was not to be messed with.

So he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, dropped it on the floor and left, clutching the journal so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The laughter followed him.

* * *

Joanne didn't feel thirsty anymore. Reed said it – fear, then thirst, then exhaustion, then nothing.

The broken leg shot a flash of burning pain whenever he tried to shift into a different position, so in the end, Joanne ended up curled up next to Reed's remains, the injured leg stretched out. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours passed around him.  
His laborious breathing was the loudest sound keeping him company, so loud that it drowned out the whispers of his disordered frantic thoughts.

Then a few bangs above him could be heard.

"Help!" he cried, but his voice betrayed him and he started coughing. "Help me, I'm here!"

The music began to play. Joanne would swear that it was a mere figment of his imagination, but then he remembered the gramophone upstairs. Strange, never in his time in Weston had somebody used it. Why now? So Mr Crick wouldn't have to listen to him?

He never thought he would die that way. After that fateful Midnight Tea Party he thought that nothing could be worse than the hunger of moving corpses, but he was learning that perhaps he had been wrong.

* * *

Maurice headed to the library first thing in the morning. It was the only place where he could avoid Alexander and he got accustomed to the peaceful atmosphere.  
He threw his books on the heavy table, but they slid down its polished surface and loudly landed on the floor.  
The student knelt down to pick them up, mildly surprised to see the rug underneath the table was moved at least two metres from its original place. He didn't pay much attention to it, though, assuming that the servants had decided to clean the floor properly, perhaps for the first time since the school was built.

Then he heard a whine, a whine so faint he wasn't sure if it was real. He turned to the old librarian who was occupied with a terribly dusty book. "Did you hear that?"

Mr Crick nodded gravely. "Mice. I've set traps, but they're attracted to this place." He hobbled towards the unused gramophone, picked a record from the stash and soon the library was filled with Mozart's _Agnus Dei_. "They get everywhere."

Maurice sat down with Reed's journal opened in front of him. Most of it made no sense whatsoever, but at least the mice stopped squeaking. Mr Crick seemed unusually agitated that day, pacing around the library, rearranging books and constantly putting new records on the run.

By the end of _Il dolce suono_ , the needle broke.

The librarian turned pale and staggered towards the table underneath _Marianne_.

"You must leave," he stated, breathing heavily.

Maurice looked up, his brows nearly reaching his hairline in bewilderment. "Excuse me?"

The mice made their presence heard again, except now the sound resembled a human voice, crying for help. Almost like...

"Harcourt?" Cole blurted out, staring at Mr Crick.

"He's not here. Surely, he ran away. He's not here. He's not here."

"Well, I don't think so."

* * *

"Harcourt? Are you in there?"

Joanne looked around, but didn't see anyone. No Redmond, no Reed. A faint flicker of hope surged up in him. "Help! I'm stuck down here!"

Then came terrible noise – furniture being moved and raised voices. One of them, the angrier one, belonged to Cole.  
The trapdoor above him opened and that little slice of light seemed like heaven.

"Are you all right?"

"No." Joanne shut his eyes and swallowed heavily. "I broke my leg and the ladder is ruined."

"Hang in there." Cole got back on his feet, turned around and found himself face to face with Mr Crick who raised a book above his head. The youth dodged the makeshift weapon in the last possible second and nearly fell into the hole as well.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Maurice screeched, his back pressed against the wall.

Murder was slowly pushing cricket off its position of the most popular hobby at school, thought Joanne to himself, listening intently to what was going on above him.

"Have you got any idea how much has this cost me already?" hissed the librarian, his hands wound around Cole's throat. "Have you spoilt, rich, snooty brats got any idea what it means to work for something?"

Cole would have loved to retort something witty, but the lack of oxygen didn't allow much space for creativity so he kneed the old man in the groin. The grip loosened. He ran towards the library door.

Alas, Mr Crick got over the amateur sterilisation sooner than expected and followed him, driven by the desire to avoid getting executed for one-and-half of a murder.  
Just as Maurice reached for the doorhandle, the man's hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him away forcefully. He clutched the handle tightly and managed to wiggle out of the librarian's grasp, open the door and yell: "Fire! Fire in the library!"

The man pulled him back in and shut the door, dragging Maurice towards the trapdoor. For a brief second he saw the librarian's face. Lips shut tightly, as if sewn together, eyes wide open and filled with fear. He was losing control.

 _Rule number 87: In case of an alarm such as fire in the school or one of the dormitories, all students should rapidly seek refuge in the school gardens and have prefects take a roll-call._

Maurice couldn't count on _help_ from other students. On the other hand, he could always rely on human nature.

Mr Crick turned sickly pale when he heard the stamping of feet outside, while Maurice let out a sigh of relief. People do not make orderly queues in front of the building when they hear about fire. Unless somebody herds them like cattle, they run to find out what is all that fuss about.

The first one to force their way into the library was Mrs Lee, soon followed by a few students from the fifth year and the Latin teacher. Maurice had never been happier to see them.

"What seems to be the problem?" the nurse demanded to know, seeing there was no fire in sight.

Mr Crick stepped back, hands raised slightly, breathing heavily after their little fight. "Everything is all right, it must have been a false alarm. A prank, perhaps. You may leave-"

Cole interrupted him quickly: "That's a lie! He-"

The Latin professor didn't let him finish the sentence. "Now, where is the fire?" he asked calmly, tired eyes observing the agitated student and nervous librarian. "And what is that on the floor?"

"There is no fire, if you would listen-"

No, they wouldn't. Because in that moment a weakened voice, only strong enough to reach them sounded through the library. "Help!"

"Exactly!" Cole exclaimed, relieved the situation wasn't about to turn into a third-grade slapstick. "Harcourt is under the floor and I'm sure there is an explanation for this, so don't let Crick leave the school, I bet it's his fault!"

* * *

Everything happened awfully fast. Later Harcourt couldn't recall what did truly happened and what belonged to the grim fantasies that kept him company in the secret room. He was rescued from his prison and brought to the infirmary. He assumed that to be true. It made sense. There was Edgar or Arden or Stephen or Phantomhive or maybe there was nobody.  
Water. There had to be water. Water and some sickly sweet medicine put him to sleep. Real? Possibly, he didn't care much. All that mattered was that he survived.

Many different people came into the infirmary to ask him about what had happened. Mrs Lee kicked most of them out, until there was only the Scarlet Fox warden and a young detective from the Scotland Yard. Joanne made sure to tell them as little as he could – he told them about the diary, about Stephen's ciphers, about Marianne and about how Mr Crick left him to die under the floor.

Yet, he decided to leave the important – the truly important – part of the story to himself. His nightmares, ghosts, fears, regrets and loneliness wouldn't tell them much anyway.  
Despite his sincere effort to keep his narration as brief as possible, he needed frequent breaks. He hated himself for that weakness, but every now and then came a moment when his hands started shaking and breathing became so difficult that he just couldn't go on speaking. The detective wrote down every word that passed through Harcourt's lips – the man's face betrayed no emotion save for an occasional frown or arched eyebrow.

Then they left him alone. Joanne fell asleep again and landed in yet another mess of tangled phantoms. He spent the greater part of the next two days sleeping, because nobody could pester him with questions that way. The detective returned later and let the boy sign a couple of papers he couldn't be bothered to read.

"Please, could you just tell me one thing?" Joanne mumbled without looking at the man, holding his knees to his chest, curled up like a terrified forest animal.

"Certainly," the detective nodded. He had just the softest hint of a northern accent. "What is it?"

"Why didn't Mr Crick just take the treasure and leave?"

"According to his statement, he thought it would seem suspicious if he left right after that other boy disappeared and so he decided to wait until retirement. Nobody would ever find out if it weren't for you. But it's strange that the diary wasn't discovered earlier."

"It was stuck under one of the bookcases. Narrow space, but deep. I didn't see it, I only noticed it, because I touched it, as I told you before."

"I'm not saying that you're lying, young man. It's just... very, very odd."

"Maybe Stephen decided that I should be the one to have it." Joanne drew his blanket tighter around himself. "What will happen now?"

The detective stood up and started pacing around Harcourt's bed, hands folded behind his back. "We are currently searching for the family of the owner of that treasure you found. Reed's brother is still alive and he was informed about the whole matter. The remains were sent to him and so Reed shall finally received a proper funeral. Mr Crick is to be tried for his crimes."

Joanne wanted to scream, he wanted someone to tell him what would happen to him, because he doubted he could go on like that for another day. All he knew was that after Christmas holiday he wouldn't return to Weston, because the school was trying to kill him.

He was an intelligent young gentleman. He could learn anything. He would learn to forget.

Hopefully.

* * *

Cole kept himself occupied with studying and so he wasn't present when the warden found Alexander sleeping in a corridor, reeking of whiskey. Of course, he claimed he didn't know how did he get there or what happened, but there were more bottles in his room and Weston's policy on alcohol was strict. It would seem somebody took great care to ruin the pristine reputation Alexander had with teachers, but who would have a reason to do such a thing?

Perhaps Cole, but he mended his ways, didn't he?

Well, not entirely.

Usually, he would enjoy a good, gleeful laugh over his stunt, but he was too worried about Joanne to properly enjoy Alexander's trouble. Sure, Harcourt was the patron saint of bookworms, but Maurice didn't wish him bad – rather the opposite. Maybe they could become friends, he would make sure that nobody messed with him.

The next day Mrs Lee allowed him to visit his recovering maybe-friend. For a moment Maurice regretted she didn't tell him to go away, because looking at Harcourt in such a state made his heart sink.

"Are you all right?" he asked, approaching the cowering teen with caution.

"I don't remember what it feels like." A whisper, barely louder than the rustling of pages in a book.

Cole once had to attend his uncle's funeral and participate in the viewing of the body. He remember that sight all too well. It was repulsive and he saw a reflection of it in Joanne's unnaturally white hands, folded on the blanket, grey in comparison. His first instinct was to turn around and leave, but instead he sat down at the edge of the bed and took one of the cold hands into his own, as if to warm it up.

"Is there something I could do?"

Joanne shook his head. "Unless you can tell me the reason why this keeps happening, then no." He fell silent, but continued after a moment. "This school is rotten. The building, the teachings, the people inside. And everyone who leaves just serves to transmit the disease. You are corrupted too. So was I, I suppose."

"And you aren't anymore?" Maurice tilted his head to the side, observing the younger student, unsettled.

"No. But that is fine. Stephen told me it would happen. When you are down there, first you are scared. Then thirsty. Then tired. And then you aren't."

"And then you aren't what?"

"Anything. I became nothing."


End file.
